The midday sun beat down. I thrust the shovel into earth. Dust rose. Sweat ran.
This was my task now. Dig my own grave.
Hour after hour, I dug. Hands blistered, then calloused. Muscles ached. The hole took shape slowly. A simple rectangle. Long enough for my body. Deep enough to contain me.
Nothing elegant about this work. Nothing complex. Just the rhythm …
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